


The Champagne Room

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Series: Just The Motion [1]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bi-Curiosity, Flirting, Humor, M/M, Mild Smut, Slow Build, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He liked a fine body no matter the make or model. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>AU:The boys take Dom out for a little R and R after the final break-up with Letty. He meets a stripper and the rest is history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Champagne Room

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Property of Universal, Justin Lin and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.  
> A/N1: Title taken from Chris Rock's _No Sex in The Champagne Room._  
>  A/N 2: Songs referenced for performances: Sex on Fire ( Kings of Leon), Red Light Special (TLC), and Motivation(Kelly Rowland). Definitely recommend listening to the music as the fic progresses, especially Red Light Special and Motivation.  
> A/N 3: Fake names used in the fic are references to other characters portrayed by Paul Walker and Vin Diesel. Joey Gazelle is PW's character in Running Scared and Xander is a reference to VD in XXX.  
> A/N 4: Concrit appreciated. Any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Re-post from 2011.

Dom drummed his fingers against the tabletop, had been doing the same thing for the past ten minutes, and from the look of things, it didn’t seem like that would change anytime soon. The four of them were quite a sight at their little table; each corner revealing an expression that was woefully unexpected and out of place in their current location.  
  
Vince sat with his back rail rod straight, muscles bunched tight and ready to spring, almost as paranoid as a dude expecting to be shivved while wearing a sign around his neck, calling him out as a rat. Leon had commandeered the squat table lamp and was holding it up to the paper in front of him, giving it his best effort of reading the microscopically small text at the bottom of the ad. Meanwhile Jesse seemed to be the only one actually adjusting to their present environment. He’d snagged a drink from a passing waitress, something in a big glass, brightly colored like a Care Bear slipped and fell into a blender with a giant piece of fruit hugging the edge, and drank it down while not so subtly bobbing his head to the music.  
  
The music wasn’t the issue, Dom could admit that much.  
  
It was practically everything else.  
  
After looking around for the umpteenth time, as if he expected to be jumped, Vince barked over the noise, “I think we should roll. Forget getting the cover back. Let’s just jet.” Another sideways glance at the stage had him shaking his head in double-time. “I’m serious, let’s just beat it.”  
  
Leon managed to wave him off while juggling the lamp and the ad. “Naw, we’re here, we’ve paid, and I swear we’re getting our money back, because… _this_ wasn’t mentioned in the ad for the buffet.” _This_ being the thing that put the bouncer’s hairy eyeballing into keen perspective as they waited outside the door.  
  
Because this all-you-can-eat-buffet night at the Fox Hole Lounge happened to coincide with Ladies Night, which explained why they were currently outnumbered by at least fifteen to one from Dom’s last count. No, they weren’t in the Valhalla of strippers; the lopsided ratio was skewed towards female patrons whopping, hollering, and generally getting their freak on with the dancing entertainers, who had happened to be strippers. Male strippers.  
  
Dom pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to think of something he could say over the thumping bass and slick scratching of Salt-N-Peppa’s _Push It_ , which couldn’t have been more appropriate if it tried, as a beefy body on stage pushed his crotch into the faces of cheering customers waving handfuls of crisp bills.  
  
A waitress buzzed around their table, bringing a bucket of icy longnecks and a stack of plates. Vince eyed her warily, as if she’d just served up a plate coated in Anthrax. “Buffet’s in the back, boys,” she said before breezing away before Leon could draw her attention to what he clearly believed was alarmingly disingenuous false advertising.  
  
Not in a million years had Dom expected to be here. Coming to the Fox Hole Lounge had been Leon’s idea, seconded by Jesse and initially lukewarmly and finally strongly supported by Vince, once Leon mentioned the lounge’s running buffet special. Vast quantities of food were Vince’s kryptonite, so of course, he would agree.  
  
What preceded this trip had been the bitterest cold war since the fall of the Berlin Wall. For two and a half weeks, DT’s had been the epicenter of a silent battle, wrought with so much tension that titanium cable would fray under the overwhelming tension of trying to hold everything in place. He would have preferred ducking flying wrenches and him and Letty yelling at each other so loudly that walls shook to being here.  
  
For those two weeks, silence haunted them, the worst kind that clawed at the insides and churned the stomach restlessly. Then, Mia made them _talk_ \--pulled out the Oprah card-- by making him and Letty have a sit down and finally hammer the last nail into the coffin of their innumerably resurrected relationship. Basically, calling them out and forcing them to get their respective shit together for the good of the team.  
  
Coming here had been the prescription for salting and burning the ghost of his relationship with Letty. Dom could only hope to God that Mia and Letty weren’t doing something similar, and if there was a chance in unholy hell that they were, he hoped that they would not take advantage of the Fox Hole Lounge’s buffet special, which coincided with two dollar fruity-tini drinks and the aforementioned ladies night. There were somethings he didn’t need to know about his sister or his once and for always soon-to-be ex.  
  
Leon’s thing was logistics-- planning, connecting, timing, and solidifying all the pieces that went with laying the foundation were his deal, but somehow the fine print, bolded on the last line of the teeny tiny disclosure information, failed to catch his eye.  
  
The moment Leon realized this, he dropped the flyer and sagged back in his chair in defeat. “That refund ain’t happenin’, so. Whatever you decide, I'm down for it.”  
  
“We stay,” Dom said, surprising the hell out Vince and Leon, though Jesse was making eyes with a chick at the bar, who looked like every television librarian he’d ever seen, right down to the cardigan and glasses attached to the pearly chain. “I mean, free food and cheap drinks. Why not? Just don't look around and you'll be safe.” It was better than going home in a sadistic sense.  
  
“But there are _dudes_.stripping. on.stage.” Vince enunciated slowly, as if they’d all lost their grip simultaneously on the English language and sanity. “How are we supposed to overcome that?”  
  
Leon did a quick scan about the room, his face lighting up every couple of feet or so. “D’s right. We’ve got food, beer and more than a handful of ladies, who’d _probably_ like some _private_ entertainment after all of this. I think this is a win-win.” Mr. Logistics obviously saw the scales were skewed in their favor and smiled, trying to swing Vince around to this logical course of action.  
  
“Definitely, “ Jesse echoed, shooting a finger pistol at the chick at the bar. “I think I’m gonna go--”  
  
“Get it, son!” Leon whopped as Jesse disappeared into the crowd near the bar. “If it gets my boy laid, I’m game.”  
  
Vince looked towards the stage. His eyes lingered for a short second, his head snapped around faster than a spring catch. “But--” he argued, tone beginning to rise to a whine. This was the closest Dom could recall Vince ever looking panicked--pure and genuinely terrified.  
  
He saw only one way of keeping a lid on the situation. “Don’t. look.” Dom advised, plain and simple, his voice brooking no dissension.  
  
The music wasn’t _truly_ terrible, the food actually smelled and looked good, and drinks would keep coming until they staggered out. It wasn’t that he ever wanted to see some dude purposefully strip down to his skivvies and hop around without being hilariously drunk. But for the sake of a few cold ones and miles of needed space, he would make the sacrifice.  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he rationalized that people did whatever they needed to for money. Sometimes, that included taking clothes off. That said, people in glass houses should be mindful of the stones they hurled, Dom in particular, and stay away from judging too harshly. Some would consider their extracurricular activities to be less than wholesome, even though Team Toretto had a mile _long_ tendency for getting up to the things that actually were.  
  
After putting Vince’s urge to fight or fly in the Fox Hole Lounge to rest, Dom found himself as the sole occupant of his table. Vince staked out the buffet line like a man on a mission of national security level importance, while Jesse and Leon were taking advantage of disproportionate ratio. Jesse was eying the bar and the cluster of nerdy or shier looking girls congregating along the stools. He hoped Jesse knew what he was in for with the quiet ones; those tended to be the real freaks in the sack. Leon, on the other hand, appeared to be on his way to working through the bachelorette parties occupying the big wrap around couches and booths, leaving Dom as the lookout.  
  
One thing he would forever recall about this experience was how enthusiastic the female customers seemed. Granted movies and tv always seemed to lay it on thick that the only women caught dead in places like this were the mousy librarians, spinster schoolmarms, tipsy hordes of invading bachelorette parties, and under sexed desperate housewives types, the company present skewered that stereotype by being pretty diverse in age, class and inebriation.  
  
The stages ahead were crowded four deep with women, some around Mia’s age—college girls, beautiful, and perky to the older, more established ladies, who looked more at home passing out programs at a church social than trying to make it rain all over some dude’s bulging abs.  
  
Dom shed a small smile, which grew broader with each passing second that Vince waited in line to reach the mountains of chow. He stood a head taller than most of the ladies bracketing him in the line. Though from the looks that he was getting, which Dom was pretty sure were flying under Vince’s radar, he might as well have been the last bottle of barbeque sauce on the Fourth of July. If he wasn’t careful, one, two or some of the ladies might get the idea that he was also on the menu and try to sop him up like biscuit in gravy.  
  
Dom had gotten his fair share of slurred winks, head nods and inviting gestures that were destabilized by the emergence of the drunk palsy triggered by one too many fruit-tini concoctions, shots of Cuervo, and downed buckets of lite beer. Unlike Jesse and Leon, he wasn’t into pretending that he was on the menu, despite the disappointed pouts being thrown his way.  
  
Vince returned to the table then, two plates heaped with spiraling fortresses of food in each hand. If he’d been in the middle of a full scale riot, Dom doubted he would have noticed. Vince’s eyes were trained on the peak of Tower A, which was topped with what appeared to be sesame chicken, if Dom had to take a guess, and the sheer level of concentration turned on his food reiterated the old saying that getting between Vince and a plate would get you a bloody stump.  
  
“This place isn’t the mondo shitfest that I was expecting,” Vince said, while rotating his plate to find the best starting position to begin excavating his mountain of miscellaneous food treasures. “But the buffet is like—like sweet and sour chicken,” he shoveled something crispy and drenched in sauce into his mouth and chewed determinedly, “--sounds awful as hell, but then you try it and it’s fucking amazing.”  
  
Coming from Vince, the Fox Hole Lounge should consider itself lucky to carry his official stamp of approval. Dom downed the last shallow swallows of his Corona before popping the cap off another. A nice buzz would help pass the night faster.  
  
“Yeah,” he agreed absently. Not that Vince was still listening to him. His head was ducked low and he was in close communion with a stir-fry and tater tot pile up occupying the eastern quadrant of Tower B.  
  
Dom’s gaze was drawn to the stage, couldn’t help but be forced to watch the two dudes dressed as firemen dance, shimmy, convulse, robot—over the stage to the roar of screaming women and the catchy hooks of a singer wailing on ironically about sex on fire.  
  
This place wasn’t the sort of venue where people prayed seriously, not like being on a short dirt track with a couple of hairpin turns thrown in before a rocky stop, he found the time to send a quick and dirty _Dear God_ to whomever might be listening. But if he could be thankful for one thing, it was that Fox Hole Lounge’s all-you-can-eat special did not include all-you-can-see, because frankly, he had seen enough. More than enough of things he’d never actually wanted to see.  
  
Paralytic three-legged dogs had more rhythm than the pair on stage, which through the haze of beer, hard alcohol, and the billowing smoke machine probably gave them the agility of roided up Baryshnikovs. But the lack of any sense of rhythm to coordinate their movements to the music was really off-putting, like physically and philosophically astounding to Dom. Dancers by definition, exotic dancers more importantly, needed to have a basic ability to catch the beat. The firemen had as much maneuverability as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float.  
  
Bottom line, they were mind-bogglingly awful dancers.  
  
Muscles big, too round for power, but perfect for vanity’s sake jiggled and bounced to the excited swooning and cooing of the lady patrons. These were the type of guys, whose intimidating figures made most people think twice about getting too close, but Dom knew better. Guys like these generally made him roll his eyes and sidestep them without much thought.  
  
One did his best to work the pole, though the pole seemed to be working him by holding up his huge body against the natural forces of gravity. The other one worked the front of the stage, all but hovering over the heads of the screaming women and their waving bills that rolled over the Crisco and spray tan lubed contours of his chest.  
  
If Dom had given the buffet any serious consideration, he would’ve lost his appetite after a too long series of rapid-fire pelvic thrusts. The firemen had shed their Tonka toy fake helmets and tear away jackets. The trousers were riding the rim of the boots on the hefty one attached to the pole, while the one upfront was rocking a blinged-out banana hammock that did more than sway: it shook, rattled and rolled as he gyrated to the last thumping chords of Sex on Fire.  
  
The pair took their bows, and lowered to scoop up all the crinkled and stray bills that covered the stage like a green shag carpet. The moment the pair exited the stage, the crowd broke out into thunderous applause, and the lights came up just marginally and the upfront crowd thinned with the surge of the ebbing tide as restocking at the bar and the buffet became the key points of interest until the next performance.  
  
Being here was like being trapped inside a National Geographic special; one where he could become the prey at any moment, should he catch enough hungry eyes. Leon had been right—the Fox Hole Lounge had taken his mind off of Letty, definitely not in the way he _expected_ , but the place managed to widen the gulf between her and his thoughts by a light-year or so.  
  
Across the room, Leon held the attention of another bridal party. The bride-to-be and the maid-of-honor—their glittery pink sashes IDing them as such—wheedled Leon into pulling up his jersey and giving them an on the spot art appreciation class by showing off his ink. That private entertaining he’d talked about looked more and more plausible as the lush smiles and bright boozy-lit eyes tracked Leon like the last wrench in the pit of the Indy 500.  
  
Even Jesse was getting it in with his flock of pretty nerd girls at the bar. He was probably wowing them with recollections of his own cataloging system for his collections of Popular Mechanics and Wired. Dom just hoped Jesse left off mentioning his obsession with Hot Rod. Some of them might get the wrong idea.  
  
And then, there was Vince, who was still half-buried under a mountain of food.  
  
“Good?” Dom asked, still amazed after all these years by Vince’s bottomless gullet.  
  
“Freakin’ amazing,” Vince grinned, far happier than Dom could have ever expected him to be in this situation.  
  
The lights flickered rapidly, alerting the customers that another show was ready to kick-off. The crowd around the stage swelled with tables being abandoned like sinking ships. Even Leon and Jesse lost members of their flocks to the approaching show.  
  
Leon hurled himself back into his chair, jostling the table and earned a scowl from Vince for his trouble. “Not sure what’s happening, but I needed a break.” He held up fan of cocktail napkins, spread across his fingers like a pink and golden embossed deck of cards. He stacked the napkins all laden with numbers and names into a pile measuring an impressive two inches high.  
  
“Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.” Dom was impressed. Leon was good with the ladies, being a downright gentleman was the cornerstone of his rep. But this? This was lucky on the magnitude of hitting seven for ten rolls in a row or a buck ten up the PCH without CHP being all over them like white on rice.  
  
Reaching over to another empty table, Leon snagged another bucket of beer. He tossed one to Dom and popped one open for himself. “ Gotta say, coming in here was like walking into hell. Like a nightmare, y'know?” He gestured generously around the room to the multitude of women. “But now, I think this was, like, some kind of test and reward thing. Like the rats with the cheese and the maze and electrical shock and shit,” he explained, before downing half a bottle. “And I think we got the cheese!”  
  
Vince popped his head up to share a squinty look with Dom. “What the hell are you talkin' about?”  
  
Somewhere inside that jumbled up mess, Dom got what Leon was getting at. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”  
  
A sober look passed over Leon’s face and rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead, while looking momentarily taken aback. “Sorry, bro, this wasn’t what we had in mind for tonight.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” Vince echoed. “But the food’s good, so I’m satisfied.  
  
Knowing how true Vince’s statement was, Leon and Dom too shared a look before busting out into a round of chuckling. The transition of the spotlight from pure white to a murky red caught Dom’s attention. Anything red triggered his immediate focus like a bull rearing to charge.  
  
Keeping his eyes focused up front, Dom reeled off, “It’s cool. You got nothing to be sorry for. Trust me, this is one experience that I don’t think I’ll be forgetting soon or talking about for a very long time.” He raised his beer in an impromptu toast, “Tonight, we’re drinking and making memories to one day tell our grandchildren. ”  
  
“Deal,” Leon managed while downing his first beer.  
  
Vince uttered something indecipherable that seemed to parrot Leon’s support.  
  
The lights dropped again and Dom finished up his thought, actually curious as the floor was suddenly awash in palpable excitement. “You wanted my mind off Let, and I can tell you, it’s not even close.”  
  
Leon whopped and smacked the table excitedly. “Alright, looks like we didn’t screw up too bad. Let’s call it a win.”  
  
Then the house lights dropped, leaving the red spotlight and the sparkling white stage lights to guide the crowd’s eyes, and the music started.  
  
Slash’s melodic, wailing guitar riffs were immediately recognizable as was the memory of making out to this very song when he was in high school surfaced with the same ease of his first backseat fumble. For that reason, and not that reason alone, Dom sat up on his seat and inched closer to the edge.  
  
The house DJ announcing Joey Gazelle practically sent half the crowd swooning. A lone figure stepped through the curtain dressed in black and blue, the lights reflecting off the dark panels of the aviator shades covering his eyes as his hidden gaze swept the darkened crowd.  
  
Vince looked up then. A sneer crossed his face and he looked away shaking his head muttering, “ Fuckin’ cops.” Even fake cops got his back up. He stood up, departing for the buffet table again. Without him sitting in front of Dom, he unintentionally freed up Dom’s view of Joey the Cop, who made the crowd collectively shiver upon taking the stage.  
  
As the song’s intro continued to play, the cop walked down a narrow line to the center of the stage. The uniform was retro—a relic from the era of blue short-sleeved shirts and starched black trousers with sharp creases from the knee down to the shiny tipped shoes. The uniform was at least two sizes too small, though Joey had the build, unlike the firemen, to pull it off.  
  
Dom inspected the cop attentively as the first verse began and the cop’s fingers worked the buckle of his belt, while his hips rolled fluidly to the beat. Before the belt fell to the floor, he removed his nightstick and twirled it from hand to hand. Finally, he rolled the tip of his stick over the stressed buttons of his uniform shirt and slowly down the line of his zipper.  
  
Joey’s tongue peeked between his parted lips, glossy even from Dom’s distance, and pointed the nightstick to some point in the crowd. If Dom was a betting man, he would have said it was pointed at him. As TLC promised to give someone the Red Light Special, Joey abandoned the night stick in favor of the pole.  
  
Unlike the firemen from the previous set, the cop wasn’t all bulging muscle. Joey was tall, lean, broad shouldered and slim waisted in way that even Dom recognized as familiar and attractive. Joey gripped the pole with one gloved hand, walking around it once, then again, before grasping it while his back was pressed to the metal and sliding down ever so slowly. He demonstrated his ability to take the southern route with enthusiasm of his swinging hips and bulging arms.  
  
As he came up, he released the pole and slunk closer to the edge of the stage. His gloves were pulled over singularly finger by finger, along with his hat, revealing wild twisting blond curls. Turning around to return to the pole, he forced all the eyes in the house to travel down the long line of his back to the frictionless glide of his hips and the blatant attention seeking of his backside curves.  
  
Dom had a personal credo, one that used to get him into more trouble than not. He liked a fine body despite the make and model. Ninety-nine percent of the time this applied to women. But Joey the Cop with his lean lines and beckoning curves had his attention.  
  
Back at the pole, Joey circled the metal, his hips floating through every gear imaginable as he caressed and rolled his body like embracing the lucky recipient of the Red Light Special. Once again in front, he popped the buttons on the shirt, one by one, so slowly that breaths were collectively held, the room suddenly was pregnant with tension as the shirt fluttered off his arms and down.  
  
He didn’t touch himself more than necessary. Instead, his body, specifically his hands, followed the directions of the song—not going too fast or too slow-- sticking to the southern route of his lean shameless hips and his still covered long legs. He prowled around the edge of the stage, where phantom hands descended on him, planting bills on him at every turn.  
  
Some lucky bride-to-be popped the button to his pants, which began a slow glide down, revealing something far more substantial and exciting that the glittery banana hammock from round one. He stepped backwards towards the pole, as if tethered to it, and rolled his hips to all four corners of the wind with deliciously slow intent.  
  
He reached behind him again, once more attaching his body to the pole. First, he started low, crouching deep, causing the pants to fall across the middle of the swell of his ass while remaining devilishly close to descending further. He thrust his legs forward, now sitting with the pole between his legs and the small of his back, narrow and concave before flaring outward into the temptation of those hips.  
  
Joey pulled himself up the pole then, his arms drawing him up higher and higher while his legs wrapped around the base like a lover being instructed to hold on. Once he was sufficiently high, he kept his hand on the clutch by starting a wave of alternating drops and rises along the length of the pole.  
  
The cop was mostly leg and those mile long legs held the pole as he rode it like it could take him to the moon and back. He dropped backwards, stretching his arms and chest towards the crowd as his legs continued to hold him as he gradually descended back to the stage. His hair swept low on the stage for a second before he whipped around, bringing himself back to face the stage and his legs uncurling from the pole.  
  
He rolled his hips once, twice, and licked the pole teasingly slow as he began another climb. The oral tease was shiver inducing. The song sped up fractionally as the steamy guitar solo and final refrain approached. Once up top, he allowed his legs to hang free and with a couple of subtle shifts, the trousers fell away, bringing miles of skin and a pair of black mini-briefs that kept Joey from appearing arrestingly shameless into full view.  
  
Those legs swung to the left, then back to the right in long slices through the air, and his thighs opened, so welcoming to the pole’s return and tightened around it. He arched his body with serpentine dexterity to cover the metal, and glided down to the smoky stage below. His descent staggered as he snapped his hips forcefully into the body of the pole before kicking out freeing himself.  
  
With his back to the crowd again, the vibrations of the song and the spell it cast rolled visibly between his shoulders and down the strong planes of his back, and finally settling in his hips, where his ass swayed hypnotically slowly. Dom followed each slide like a bouncing ball across a black screen, slipping deeper and deeper beneath his spell.  
  
As the guitar solo began to give way to the final refrain, the cop dropped to his knees suddenly. His knees fluttered in and out as his back and ass undulated over the final declaration that what he had was anyone’s for the taking. His body curled and arched like a sinuous wave and there was no way of telling which end was getting or receiving.  
  
One more hard thrust forward.  
  
And the song began to fade out to the slow pendulous rock of Joey the Cop’s ass dancing across the vision of everyone in attendance, minus Vince.  
  
Dom made a gasping sound that he failed to hide with a burst of feinted coughs afterwards and a rushed mouthful of beer to chase it. Leon caught the noise, before that he’d caught Dom watching the cop go at the pole like a sailor on shore leave. He left the table without Dom being any the wiser, having a new plan up his sleeve.  
  
Joey rolled to his feet and pivoted on one foot to face the crowd. He made a show of rocking his hips to the dying beat, all the while scanning the crowd behind the barrier of his shades. As the final words gave way to the last stirrings of the Red Light Special, he slipped the glasses off his nose and dragged one of the arms to caress his bottom lip. The song ended with a final roll of his hips and his lips caressing the tip of the frame’s arm between his pink, shiny lips.  
  
There weren’t a pair of dry panties in the place.  
  
And the tent in Dom's pants that would be otherwise embarrassing was stubborn and wanting.  
  
As Joey the Cop took to his final bows, a waitress appeared out of the ether at this shoulder. “You Dom?”  
  
His eyes were dragged away slowly from the stage to the perky, probably part-time coed. “Yeah.”  
  
She inclined her head to the back. “This way, please,” was all she said and he followed without hesitation.  
  
They wove their way through the backlot of tables full of hot and bothered patrons, who had no compunction about eying him like he was on tap. Dom kept a small smile on his face, but refrained from making eye contact. The last thing he wanted was to be mobbed by a group of women old enough to be his mother or grandmother. Talk about things that made for being scarred for life.  
  
The waitress entered a moody lit corridor. Overhead, the neon sign blinked out the name of the correct designation for this part of the lounge—The Champagne Rooms.  
  
He could have pumped the brakes then, waved the waitress off and turned on his heels and walked away. Unless, the waitress leading him back would be providing him with a forthcoming lap dance, he wasn’t sure he wanted one. Definitely didn’t want one from the firemen or some of the other walking slabs of beef around the Fox Hole Lounge crawling all over him, if he had any say in the matter.  
  
Doors lay on both sides of the hall, but she kept walking until she reached the last one on the right. She opened the door and stepped aside to beckon him in. The back of the room was paneled by floor to ceiling mirrors. A red on black wrap around couch curled in front of the mirrors protectively, providing a perfect view of the entire room. Another bucket of chilled Coronas sat on one of the black metallic roundtables book-ending the couch. Opposite the door, a wall-mounted cabinet sat with glass doors covering the stereo equipment inside.  
  
Once he sat on the couch, the waitress smiled at him again. “Just a moment,” she supplied, before closing the door.  
  
“Wait--”  
  
She stopped and looked at him.  
  
“Who ordered this?”  
  
The corners of her mouth turned up into a soft grin. “I was told to say ‘a friend’.”  
  
Probably Jesse or Leon, Dom already surmised. More than likely Leon, and if this went sideways or inflicted some sort of lasting trauma, he knew exactly who to gun for.  
  
She closed the door, leaving him to the muffled sounds of the house music and another inviting bucket of beer. He looked down at his lap, which was still half stiff. He couldn’t say that that had never happened to him before, but never had he had a reaction to another guy that went from zero to hundred in a blink.  
  
Sexy was sexy, he supposed, and he didn’t discriminate when it came to a good time.  
  
He was a quarter down with his beer when the knock came. He sat up, already curious about who was on the other side. The moment the door opened and he saw the shadowed silhouette in the frame, he knew exactly was coming to him.  
  
It was Joey the Cop.  
  
He gave Dom a serious sweep from head to toe. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked from the doorway.  
  
Dom was all for testing his limits. If the cop could work him up from across the room, he wondered what he’d do when they were up close and face to face. A challenge, it was. “Why? Don’t think I can handle it?”  
  
Joey leveled his chin to fix his stare more squarely on Dom. “Maybe…probably not. Most can’t.”  
  
Dom smirked then. _Touché_. The guy must be good. Well, Dom already knew that much was true. So he downed the rest of his beer and blinked away the fuzzy feelings clouding his thoughts. He set his bottle aside and turned back to the figure shadowed in the door. “Luckily, I’m not like everyone else.”  
  
If this was a test drive, then Dom readied himself for the most important part-- the handling.  
  
Joey nodded. “Alright,” he said, before stepping into the room.  
  
The challenge had been accepted.  
  
Without the aviators hiding his face, Dom cottoned on to several apparent facts relatively quickly despite the low pull of the alcohol in his system. The facts included: Joey the Cop’s blue eyes, so blue and bright they reminded him of high beams, but looking away wasn’t an option; his prettiness—not pretty as in overly feminine way, but carrying sharp angles and perfect contours with a innate softness that made his features a little too delicate to be called handsome; and his body—lean, healthy and strong with curves that made Dom’s eyes wander appreciatively.  
  
From this distance, Dom realized Joey the Cop was a bonafide supermodel compared to the rest of the knuckle-draggers he’d seen in this place.  
  
After Joey closed the door, he crossed the room to get to the stereo. Looking over his shoulder, Joey caught Dom giving him a long once over. “Like what you see?” Joey challenged playfully.  
  
Another test undoubtedly, which gave off sparks hinting at Joey's hidden fiery nature; one that Dom was rapidly becoming more attracted to. What could he say? He'd always been attracted to things that promised the possibility of fire and explosions. He was addicted to flirting with getting burned.  
  
Dom made it a point to let his eyes drag over particularly stunning parts of Joey’s assets. Then, he stared back into those blue eyes unrepentantly, “Looks good on my end. How ‘bout yours?”  
  
Joey didn’t answer him right away. Just tinkered with the stereo before snagging the slim remote and shutting the doors to the cabinet—he wore a blossoming smirk as he worked and prepared himself to get down to business.  
  
Joey stood just out of reach in front of Dom. “You know the rules?”  
  
Dom half-shrugged. “It’s been a while, so a refresher’s always nice.” Though some things were hard to forget, the golden rules of lap dances being some of those things.  
  
Joey dipped in head in a slight nod. “I can touch you. But--” he wagged his finger in warning, “you can’t touch me.”  
  
That was the universal rule of lap dances; one that Dom had never had a problem abiding. “Where’s the fun in that?” The fun was in touching and the temptation to break the rules. A guy like him always got off on the latter and if he read Joey correctly, the blue fire blazing in his eyes said he did too.  
  
Joey’s perfect white grin flashed Dom’s way. A smile like that could be addictive. “We’re getting there. So, ready?”  
  
“Hit me.”  
  
Joey triggered the music to start, and tossed the remote to the other end of the couch. As the music started, Dom shifted his feet subtly outward to give his cock some much needed space.  
  
The backbeat was slow—dripping and electronically syncopated, and each pulse gave Dom a sensory tingle as he watched Joey draw his body from rest. Joey caught the invisible current, starting with his head canting backwards down the valley of his neck through his shoulders and the sloping curves of his stomach to rest in the temptation of his hips.  
  
He didn’t drop his gaze from Dom’s. Like a live current, he fed Dom the energy to continue to watch. Joey’s long body rolled and swayed, curled towards Dom and back; each move inviting Dom to something new and energetic. Daring him even to follow the song’s lead and find the motivation to reach for something new.  
  
Joey stepped into the open space between Dom’s legs and dipped before rising with simmering heat in his eyes and electricity under his skin. He bracketed his arms on the outside of Dom’s hips and proceeded to weave himself through every inch of Dom’s space. This close and Dom could take in the golden tan and soft peach undertones to Joey’s skin, smell the sharp notes of sweat and subtle accents of Irish Spring, and feel the heat radiating off his sunkissed skin.  
  
The black briefs intensified the golden gleam to Joey’s skin, while drawing Dom’s eyes and hands to the cotton-spandex covered region like a magnet. Rising again, Joey turned his back to Dom and concentrated on circling his hips, gradually transitioning them into lazy figure eights swimming through the center of Dom’s field of vision.  
  
Above the flare of Joey’s lean hips, the shallow cuts of his pelvic indentations begged to be held, demanded to have hands settled there, and their motion steered by another. Joey leaned back, putting them literally chest to back, as he rolled his spine over Dom’s chest and stirred his ass over Dom’s far from subtle hard-on.  
  
Tilting his head forward just so resulted in him nosing through Joey’s curls, which were soft and very blond at the roots carrying a stronger scent of salty sweat. So close. Close enough to roll his tongue along the long slope of Joey’s back and grasp that generous ass that taunted him with every rise and fall of Joey’s body.  
  
Once they were face to face, Dom found himself locked in Joey’s attractive gaze. It should have been weird having a lapful of a hot guy body, but the mechanics were fundamentally the same. Sure, there was an apparent absence of soft and plush parts, but Joey was more solid on his lap, his ass just as firm and accommodating. His thighs were stronger, bigger and gripping Dom like he’d ride him to the end of the line. His chest was smooth, skin so flawless and encouraging, nipples already hard and waiting to be teased. Even the sparse line of fine blond hair trailing down from Joey’s navel incited a spark in Dom’s groin. He could imagine blowing across that light dusting of hair and over the hollow of Joey’s navel and watching the crop of gooseflesh spreading over the smooth contours of Joey’s flat stomach.  
  
Even that straight line of Joey’s neck got him going. Images flickered across his mind of his teeth working the corded muscle there, leaving red demonstrations of ownership for all to see.  
  
The tent in Dom’s jeans that had gone from stubborn to raging, insistently seeking the friction offered by the slow curling and rocking of Joey’s hips. “Gotta name?” Joey asked with California rolling through his voice.  
  
Without blinking, Dom said, “Xander.” Which sparked a large smile to spread across Joey’s face. They were lying to each other; at least each of them knew it.  
  
Joey rolled his hips deliberately hard over Dom’s cock, precisely enough to allow it to glance over the valley between Joey’s covered cheeks. Dom grunted and set his hands up to grasp Joey’s hips, but remembered the golden rule and dropped them.  
  
Smirking then, Joey dropped his hands from Dom’s shoulders and pulled Dom’s hands onto their intended target. He spread his legs wider and allowed his hips to be pushed lower into the hardness below him. Every roll of Joey’s hips was harder, deliberate and directed at making Dom break his stare.  
  
It was a fucked up game of gay chicken. Under the halogen brightness of Joey’s gaze, the temptation of his slick lips and the insistence of his hips, Dom could crash headlong into a brick wall and be just fine with it at the moment.  
  
After one long surge of rubbing, where Joey succeeded in getting Dom to the edge before backing off sharply, he gasped out a raspy laugh. “I guess what they say about white boys ain’t true.” His voice came out rusty, a harsh rumble above the music’s rolling snare.  
  
“And what’s that?” Joey asked, pushing Dom’s hands a little deeper and lower across his hips to finally rest over the swell of that perfectly tight ass.  
  
“You know. No junk in the trunk and no rhythm,” he replied, a ghost of a smile dying on his lips as he palmed Joey’s ass hard after a deep rub.  
  
Joey leaned forward, hooking his chin over Dom’s shoulder, and whispered in a whiskey rough voice, “Someone’s gotta break down stereotypes. Might as well be me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dom agreed. He wasn’t the only one affected here. The hard line of Joey’s cock rubbed against his stomach with each forward glide and Dom didn’t mind at all.  
  
He never wanted to be one of those guys, who confused strippers with hookers, but Joey was into this and willing, and the chemistry between them was about as apparent as their nail splitting hard-ons in their pants.  
  
Finally, Joey grabbed his shoulders and bounced up and down over his lap, owning his cock in his stirring rendition of the cowgirl. His eyes fought to stay open as he blasted off in his pants like he was still in middle school, and Joey stilled over him, breath coming short and hard,and Dom used this opportunity to thrust up between Joey’s thighs, and Joey came, hard and gasping.  
  
The song was on loop, he realized once they finally caught their breath. The song was fucking amazing and his lack of post-orgasm brain-to-mouth filter announced it as so.  
  
Joey rolled his forehead over the shoulder of Dom’s leather jacket. “I don’t get to pick the costumes, but the tunes are all mine.”  
  
Dom replied a breezy, “Huh.” Joey had good taste.  
  
Joey picked his forehead up, giving Dom a sideways look. “Got a problem with the music?”  
  
“Nope, it’s all good.” The fact that he didn’t mind a mostly naked, slightly sweaty dude on his lap spoke volumes about how much he didn't mind.  
  
Joey had only moved back to hold Dom’s gaze, but hadn’t made a serious move to get off Dom’s lap. Not that Dom was sure he’d let him get far. “I’ve found that good music has a way of bringing the tips in like a good rain dance in the middle of a dry season.”  
  
Looking like Joey did probably played a great deal into getting good tips too, Dom figured without saying. Instead, he offered, “True, I’m sure the, um, ladies, um…customers make it rain for you.”  
  
Grinning Joker-wide, Joey replied, “You have no idea. I don’t care who makes it rain as long as there’s no drought. You get me?”  
  
Sure, he did. Speaking of making it rain, Dom made a move to reach for his wallet, but Joey stopped him. “Already taken care of. “  
  
“What about the rest of it?” He hoped dry-humping didn’t count as a standard lap dance package these days, because they seemed quite skeevy. He was fairly sure that he hadn’t completely read the situation wrong.  
  
Joey cut Dom another movie star smile. “ _That_?  Well, that was on me. On the house, of course.”  
  
He tucked his relief away and settled on getting another question answered. “You doing anything later?” Rebounds tended to end up badly, but this rebound felt too hot to push aside. Dom was hooked on something new and he was wanted more, if Joey was willing.  
  
Joey unfolded himself from Dom’s lap and steadied himself on his feet. He fingered his damp curls, while giving Dom a considering look. “Maybe. That’s only if you’re still here when I get off, _Xander_.”  
  
“Cool.” Dom watched Joey shut off the stereo and open the door. “It’s Dom, by the way. As in Dominic. And you are?” He waited for Joey to catch his drift.  
  
Joey’s reply was another sly grin and long once over of Dom from head to toe. “I'm still here until closing.” Then, he was gone.  
  
Fair enough, he could wait. Waiting a few hours for Joey to get off so that they could possibly get off again wouldn’t be hard now that the edge had already been taken off. He’d possibly check out the buffet, if Vince hadn’t tapped it dry.  
  
So, he grabbed the bucket of beer and headed back to the floor. He didn’t want to miss the show.  


* * *

  
  
They’d brought him out that night to get his mind off his break-up. A few hours out from walking into a disaster in the making and his thoughts were a million miles away, centered around a male stripper named Joey, who was the hottest cop he’d ever seen. Dom would like cops more, if they were as laidback as Joey and as forthcoming with lap dances.  
  
Closing time having come and gone ten minutes prior, his car was one of the few still in the lot. Vince had carted Jesse off when he became too tipsy on phone numbers and daiquiri-tini combos. Leon got carted off by some bridal party like a very eager spoil of war around an hour back. Dom would be lucky if he saw him in one piece the next morning.  
  
Before leaving Vince had given him a questioning look, interested in knowing where Dom had gone off to. Knowing Vince as he did, Dom simply shrugged and figured saying nothing was better than saying anything at all. Vince wasn’t the most level-headed about shocking information.  
  
In the meantime, Dom found his attention fixed on a sweet little Nissan GTR R34. Clearly, it was a work in progress that could become a true thing of beauty if given the chance and the right amount of care. The 19-inch HRE 446 chrome wheels were just as much a statement as necessary for good traction. The metallic silver paint on the rigid carbon fiber frame ignited interest, but it what was under the hood that mattered most. Under the hood made the difference between first and last, and lust and love.  
  
“So, you’re here,” Joey stated with a satisfied look on face, not really surprised. “I guess this means I’m free tonight.”  
  
Dom swept his eyes over Skyline once more before shouldering up beside Joey. “I’ve got all night.”  
  
“Were you checking out my car?”  
  
And the hits just kept coming. Dom took the opportunity to serve up Joey a taste of his own medicine by schooling his expression into a cryptic minimally impressed cipher. “Yeah, you’ve put a nice bit work into that GTR. Looks a little sweet. I haven’t checked under the hood, but I think you’re in the ballpark of making a nice ten second ride.”  
  
Joey looked down at his hood with the adoration a parent gave a precocious child. “I’ve got a ways to go, but nights like this put me a lot closer.” Looking at Joey now was like an exercise in fact versus fiction. Joey had…genuinely no sense of style, as evidenced by his ratty jeans, plain t-shirt, cotton zip-up hoodie, and beat-up Chucks. But he still managed to look good despite himself. “ Since you know so much about my car, I'm curious about what you're rolling in?”  
  
Dom pointed to the Charger.  
  
Joey blinked hard and let out a slow breath.  He might have creamed himself at the sight of real muscle. “That’s freakin’ sick. Talk about a masterpiece.”  
  
“Do I have your seal of approval, Joey?”  
  
Joey looked from the car to Dom. “Yeah and potentially my first born. And it’s Brian..." Then almost shyly, he added, "So you wanna peek under my hood or what?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Brian walked up the grill and rapped his knuckles over the hood, then tossed a sly look Dom’s way. “I’m not that easy. I require a date first, but,” he says, looking from the empty street to Dom’s car to Dom, “for you, I can make an exception.”  
  
“And what’s that?”  
  
“Beat me through the next quarter mile and I’ll give you a look. You can even touch this time too.”  
  
“Got a deal, Brian.”  
  
“See you in a quarter mile, Dom.”


End file.
